


Playdate

by DennisCrumb



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Business Trip, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Murder Husbands, Oblivious!Oswald, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PWP, Possesive!Oswald, Self-Harm Zsasz's Scars, Sleep Deprivation, Some Plot, Temperature Play, Top Victor Zsasz, Up All Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-14 18:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13013910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DennisCrumb/pseuds/DennisCrumb
Summary: Oswald and Victor have a night out and some secrets come to light.





	Playdate

**Author's Note:**

> You shift the play, push the curve to sit between your thighs  
> It's a sign, it's time to exercise the lines  
> You want the double cut through to wet, invade and slide  
> You slide and I'm awake and I'm the slave tonight
> 
> Your Joy Is My Low- IAMX

Oswald was going over some papers given to him by Penn, scanning the profiles of criminals in Gotham for hire seeing as he was still terribly short on men. Luckily for him, when he’d gotten back to Gotham Victor had already gathered some promising hired guns. Now Oswald was weeding mostly through small criminal teams, sorting out each men in their hierarchy; from the talent to the snitch to the dead weight. He’d only leave the dead weight to tell the tale in the underground. 

The Iceberg Lounge's staff went home long ago. Other than the loud ticking of a clock or the muffled sound of Mr. Penn taking calls all is silent.

But then the door shoves open and the quick, heavy stride of boots thudding on marble breaks it. "Boss."

Oswald blinks dazedly and looks up from his reading of a restaurant robbery near the Palisades. "Victor..." he's too exhausted from the day's events to remind the man about shut doors typically meaning a desire for privacy.

"Got anything interesting going on?" Victor looks antsy as he stops in front of Oswald's desk but not in a bad news way. He simply looks restless- although, that was never simple with his favorite hitman. A bored Victor was not pleasant to be around. It was an heavy, unsettling dread for anyone near; a teasing instigator at best, an agitated, trigger happy troublemaker at worst.

Oswald fixes him with a stern, pointed look. "No. It's _late_."

"Crime doesn't sleep at night," he states matter-of-factly, mouth curling in confusion.

"Yes- you would know." Oswald scoffs. "Go home and get some rest."

Victor glances at the clock on the wall with a small pout. "It's only half past nine."

Sighing, Oswald struggles not to look forlornly at the door. He's been putting off hiring more men for a while now, relying solely on Victor's now that he had other matters to worry about. Finding trustworthy, loyal people to work for him - on both sides of the law - was even more difficult these days with his increasing paranoia. 

Victor looks back, following his gaze to a frozen Ed with an accusing look.

"Go see what the others are up to." Oswald mumbles, lazily waving his hand back towards the door as he sets a profile of a safe cracker in his consideration pile.

“The little firebird went to go burn stuff and the popsicle went along with her.”

“Why didn’t you go with them,” Oswald mutters in growing frustration.

“The invitation wasn’t extended to me.”

“Ivy?” he tries.

“We went shopping all this morning, she fell asleep the moment I dropped her off back home. I mean, hell- _o_ , did you not notice the new vest I’m currently wearing?” Victor makes a sweeping gesture down his long, lanky frame.

Oswald can hear the hint of an oncoming sulk in Victor’s voice which will eventually turn to frustrated anger or an depressive, catatonic state for hours if not entertained.

Oswald looks up and his eyes fix on said shiny, leather vest and then his entire outfit with a small noise of approval. “It’s very dashing, Victor. Isn't it, Ed?” He directs the question to his former best friend to ignore the fluttering in his chest at noticing Victor apparently adapting such a similar fashion to his own.

“ _Whatever_.” Victor pulls out the chair in front of Oswald’s desk and kicks his feet up.

Gritting his teeth, Oswald snatches up his cane where it’s resting against the desk and uses it to push his feet back down.

Victor has the gall to send him a look as if to say, _what’s bugging you?_ "You need to get out of this office, boss." Victor's tone is soft and coaxing as if he's talking to a child. "It's a bit stuffy. Some fresh air will do you some good."

"You know what...I think you're right, my friend." Heaving a great sigh, Oswald stares back at the blurry, black ink on the papers and decides to push them aside for now. He has the onset of a terrible migraine brewing whenever he pushes himself too much.

“Mr. Penn!” Oswald loudly beckons, the man's heavy footfalls stumble to the door shortly after.

Penn sticks his head through the door. “Yessir? I was just finishing-”

“Playing solitaire with funny cat videos in the background,” Victor mutters.

Oswald ignores that small tidbit and leans forward in his seat, propping a fist under his chin. “How’s our numbers looking in relation to crime?”

“Numbers are down to thirty-eight percent, sir.”

Oswald hums contemplatively. “Has there been a spike in activity anywhere specific? Wouldn’t do for an area to regroup and retaliate while numbers are steady.”

“The docklands. I’ve already informed Mr. Zsasz of it earlier this weekend.”

“My people are on it,” Victor adds in dull exasperation as he pulls out his phone and flips it open. “There hasn’t been any- oh, _hey_! New message.” He looks at Oswald, immediately perking up, a smile tugging up at the corner of his mouth.

" _Well_?" Oswald prompts after several beats of silence.

“Plans for a bakery called Sweet Tart is going to be hit up tonight,” Victor finally says.

“Do they have a license?” Oswald prods.

“I hope not,” Victor wistfully responds, ignoring the stink eye sent his way by Oswald. “Hold on- my guy is sending a photo. _And_...” he drawls. “Nope.” He locks eyes with Oswald again. “No license.”

Victor leans forward and shows him the shaky photo of three huddled man around a table in a crappy bar. Nevertheless, recognition lights both their faces. “I already sent these guys a message when they tried to raid a charity ball. Repeat offenders.”

Oswald works his jaw furiously, sitting back and messily shuffling through one of five stacked papers. “The time for warnings for this particular group has _officially_ expired,” he hisses. Crumpling up the papers, he tosses the sheets in the bin. 

“You coming along?” Victor asks with clear excitement while he watches his boss collect his coat. 

“ _Yes_ ,” he seethes, rounding the desk. “I will show them once and for all that I mean business,” he shrills. “No license, no _crime_!” Oswald stomps his good foot and it echoes throughout the office, the force of motion trussing up his hair.

An even wider, pleased smile creeps across Victor’s face. He _loves_ to see the boss riled up like this. It gives him a different kind of euphoria, a heady low warmth that settles over him like a hot drink on a cold day.

Falcone had once been like that in the earlier years of Victor's employment; just as smart but also incredibly domineering and vicious and unforgiving. As much as Victor had cherished his work under Falcone even in the man's latter years he sure has missed _this;_ the reverent fear and righteous bloodshed that comes with the King of Gotham. Victor was more reserved with his own subordinates whenever he’d take them on a job to hone their skills. But the humor he’s found with Oswald when the two went out together was easy and natural. Victor likes putting on a show for the boss as much as reporting to him after he'd finished a job.

The night air is cool and the wind blows in the stench of sodden trash, greasy foods, and the lingering aftermath of a fire. Thick, damp industrial smoke crawls out of sewer grates and gutters, sits on the skin in a way that feels sticky and permanent, either breaking down or thickening the citizens of Gotham depending on who you were. A chorus of police sirens rise over honking cars, casting crumbling buildings in red and blue. A man shouts something indescribable and Victor isn’t entirely sure if it’s a cry of joy or pain, he doesn’t get to figure it out as the city falls into a deadening silence again.

Oswald’s cane clicks loudly, the accompanying footfalls uneven, out of tune. Soothing in their dissidence. Victor opens the passenger door for him, fingers wriggling against the handle anxiously as his boss takes his time settling in. Not a second too late does he close the door and rounds the car to the driver’s side in one of their nondescript, black cars.

The Boss needs this outing just as much as he does. He can see it in the clench of his jaw and the white of his knuckles while clutching the cane. Needs the chase and release of a good game just as much as he does.

When they arrive broken pastel pink and mint green stained glass is scattered across the pavement. A gum machine lays halfway out the large bay window, bubblegum in every flavor rolling down the cracked sidewalk. Victor cocks his head to piece together the yellow cursive name of the shop.

“I've always wanted to visit here.” Sliding his right Sig out of its holster, Victor stalks forward with Oswald close behind him.

A piercing smash and a series of banging and cracks come inside the dark shop. Victor passes the threshold first, eyes moving over the three men wielding aluminum bats. Chairs lay in splintered pieces and a battered coffee machine is overturned. Plastic wares and food toppings are everywhere. Two of them have small pistols going by the back of their bulging shirts. This wasn't a robbery, but a clear message.

“Hello,” Victor greets mock cheerfully over the noise. The three men grind to a halt like clogs in a rusty clock, their faces may be slightly shrouded in darkness but the slow realization of horror is plain in their tight, unmoving posture.

The man near the counter (average height and build wearing a tacky gold chain) reaches for his gun but Victor beats him to it, the Sig pointing right between his eyes. The sound of glass splintering to his left has him sliding out the twin pistol to point at the scrawny, mousy thug standing in the middle of a smashed jar of sprinkles. The third guy: short, round and sporting a dirty beard manages to get out his revolver to aim at Victor's chest. All are locked in a silent, tense standstill.

Oswald makes his entrance then, carefully stepping around the mess, he halfheartedly inspects the place. “Wow.” He presses his mouth together to stop his mad chuckle. “This is rather unfortunate isn’t it?”

“I’ll say,” Victor drawls, eyes flitting over the sole of the scrawny thug's boots which are covered in tiny sugar coated stars. “I really wanted a sprinkled covered donut.”

Smirking nastily, Oswald stops beside Victor. "If these gentlemen had the good mind to consider getting a _license_ then maybe they could have brought us one."

Reddening in embarrassment, the guy wearing the chain straightens in false bravado, eyes flitting from Victor to Oswald with a look of disgust. "We don't take orders from no little _desk punk mayor_ playing gangsta."

The insult stirs the big guy into reacting and Victor spots the intention before the goon has time to cock his hammer back. Victor fires a shot and the bullet pierces his hand. He cries out and the gun clatters to the floor while he clutches his palm, doubling over. 

Oswald glares at the goon on the floor with a snarl. "You underestimate me. Do I look like I'm behind a desk _now_?"

The scrawny guy hurls a jar of gummy worms at them and Victor ducks, gripping Oswald's arm and roughly pulling him down. The glass jar explodes against the wall moments later.

"I think I had a dream like this once," Victor says aloud as he shoots the second jar the man goes to pick up, pieces of it flying into the thug's torso and face. He yells, covering his face and clumsily retreats.

The guy in the chain lunges for Oswald and Victor twists where he's kneeling, pulling the trigger on him. His black tracksuit darkens around the knee and he howls, crumbles down on both legs right in front of the king. The scrawny kid in the corner automatically puts his now bloody hands up and drops to his knees, a mantra of, "oh, shit," spilling from his mouth as he stares at Victor with wide, red eyes. Victor holds his gaze as he lowers the gun to the big guy still writhing on the ground, free hand extending towards his revolver, and puts a bullet in his head.

Oswald muffles his chuckle. "How convenient is it that we're near the pier?"

“You little _freak_!" The man in the chain shouts. "You think you're actually gonna get away with charging criminals to steal!? You're _delusional_."

Oswald brings his cane up and cracks him on the side of his head, his neck snapping back and blood quickly begins to trickle down his heavy brow.

"Really?" Oswald sneers. "Because it seems to be working just fine for the _professionals_."

The thug surprises them both, arching back and spitting directly on Oswald’s tie.

No one says anything for a long stretch of silence.

There was something to be said about a slap or glob of spit, it was up there on the top tier of disrespect. Along with an insult to someone's mother or going after a boss' heir for revenge, it certainly wasn't the way to handle old school pursuits in the criminal underworld back in the day. It was something that couldn't easily be swiped to the side in a forgiving manner, or forgotten. It wasn't business- it was _personal_.

Victor walks over and swings his hand up, backhanding the goon with one of his pistols, he lands on his side with a pained grunt.

"Watch it,” Victor lowly warns. “You’re already running on borrowed time. Wouldn’t want it to last longer than necessary."

He turns to gauge his boss' anger at the offense and his heart jerks at the pure rage clouding over his face. Victor has seen a variety of anger on that face before, always tinged with some underlying emotion. But this was pure venom. With a snarl, Oswald hastily rips the tie off and surges forward with a bark at Victor to haul the man back, he complies and rights him back to his knees. Oswald forcefully stuffs the fabric inside the struggling man’s mouth and down his throat. The man starts to cough and wheeze and Victor wraps a fist in his thin, black curls to keep him still.

He glances sideways to send a smile to the last thug who has moved to the corner and looks on the verge of pissing himself. But he gives Oswald his attention as he watches him unsheathe his dagger from its cane, plunging it under the man's jaw. It slides in smoothly and the man chokes in a mixture of shock and pain, body jerking in Victor's grip before half slumping forward on Oswald’s shoulder. He wetly gasps around the tie for those last few, precious breaths. Oswald plants a hand on the man's shoulder, squeezes reassuringly in a cruel promise for it to all be over soon as he twists the knife..

“ _Nice_ technique, boss.”

Whatever Victor had given away in his tone catches Oswald’s attention, blushing prettily and visibly preening under the experienced assassin’s compliment. He looks so much more alert and elated compared to how he'd looked before Victor had convinced him to take a break. He looks downright euphoric. Black locks sticking to his pale skin, a breathless laugh escaping through his lips, red gloves pronounced against his clothing.

“You have quite the red thumb for this line of work." Victor laughs dryly at his own joke.

“Oh, well, thank you. I’ve been pulling troublesome weeds out of my life for quite some time now.” Oswald wiggles his fingers with amusement. He looks up then to see Victor standing incredibly close, towering behind the man and leaning slightly on him, like the goon bleeding out under him isn't even there. He's staring down at Oswald with that familiar mix of mischief and bloodlust in those large, black irises. His frame tightly coiled in the snug, tailored wool and leather he dons, ready to spring as he sways side to side in an anticipatory manner; waiting for Oswald’s word.

Shoving the man back, there’s a flurry of black and red as Oswald stabs him again, surging up on the tip of his shoes as he twists the knife, sliding it sideways for good measure before pulling it back out. The lifeless body collapses to the ground with a heavy thud and Oswald edges back, nearly avoiding the man. Panting, he turns to the last one standing, teeth bared.

“Can I do the last one now, please?” Victor asks, eyes following his to the man in the corner whose as pale as the thin, wispy clouds peeking in the shop.

Pulling out a handkerchief from his breast pocket, Oswald wipes the blade clean with an adoring huff. He pats Victor on the back.

“Honestly, I spoil you Victor.” Oswald shakes his head, feigning irritation and exasperation, but he knows the man sees past that to the obvious fondness. With another small sigh, he motions his acquiescence. “Go ahead. No use in leaving him alive, I think this sends a clear message.”

Victor has his Sig pointed right between the man’s eyes before he even has time to register what’s about to happen next. Life blooms into him again, a shred of survival instincts as he starts pleading than reasoning. Oswald demands his silence, his voice cracking in a high, furious pitch as he orders the man to stuff his rebellious mouth full of gumballs. 

Oswald looks at Victor, the latter arching his brow expectantly and when he nods he fires, gumballs and blood spewing across the black and white tiled floor.

Victor glances at Oswald's blank stare and grimly serious, he says, “dramatic re-enactment of the gumball machine?”

A low, hysteric chuckle bubbles out of Oswald, transforming into a high pitched giggle that has Victor laughing along with him.

At the sound of a muffled scream the two abruptly stop and share a look of equal confusion. A loud thump from behind the counter has Oswald tensing defensively and Victor aiming at the double doors.

An older man - bound and gagged with fishermen rope - comes hopping out of the back. At the sight of them his eyes widen and he tucks and rolls with a loud smack, disappearing behind the counter.

“Antonio?” Victor calls aloud. He senses Oswald’s confused gaze but ignores it, making his way over and around the corner.

The man in question startles and awkwardly jerks his head up to peer sidelong at Victor. His pepper brows rise and he blinks rapidly in disbelief before dropping his head back to the floor with a relieved groan.

Victor bends down on his haunches, a full grin spreading across his face. “Long time no see.”

~~**////** ~~

“Victor.” Oswald barks testily, and perhaps just a tad bit possessive. “Who is this man?” He’s never seen Victor being so chummy with a subordinate; although it makes sense given his distraction when food was a factor. Normally, Victor would be the first to strike them down, almost at half the rate their enemies did if Oswald doesn’t reel him in half the time.

After procuring a knife from a strap hidden by his boots Victor sets to work on the rope. “Antonio. Worked as the head chef for Falcone back in the day.”

Oswald sniffs haughtily. “How did he end in this dump?” the barb comes out before thinks.

“And just what in the _hell_ are you referring to as a dump?” comes the raspy ire of Antonio whose now working on the rope around his ankles.

Reeling back, Oswald narrows his eyes. "Well...can you honestly blame me for calling it that with the current state it's in?" he defends with pursed lips.

Groaning, Antonio stands a little slouched and bruised up but no serious, outward damage. He peers over the counter and scans the dead bodies and the place. "Ah, _shit_. So much for retiring early." He looks more pissed than heartbroken as he slowly shuffles around the counter to get a better look at his attackers.

“Who were these lowlife's anyway?” Victor kicks the leg of the big guy. “I wasn’t aware they were pulling extortion jobs…they from around here?”

“Just some _punks_ who work at the docks, they pass by my shop nearly every morning. Never came inside. Never even so much as looked my way.”

“Pretty arrogant move on their part to hit so close to home," Oswald says. 

Antonio shifts uneasily. “Yeah- _look_ , I don’t wanna be dragged into this anymore than I already have so you _didn’t_ get this from me…” he levels the two with a stern look before sagging under the weight of his age. “The reason these, uh, pieces a _trash_ destroyed my shop is because I refused to let them stash some stuff here and keep hush.”

Oswald tightens the grip on his cane. “Stuff? What _stuff_?” 

“Drugs.”

“ _Drugs_?" Oswald growls. "In _my_ city. _No_. No, no, no that just won’t do,” he fumes, pacing now.

Victor pulls out his phone. “Did they happen to let slip who they’re working for? What boat it came on?”

Antonio shakes his head. “All I know is that the slick guy with the piece of fabric in his mouth?" he scrunches his face in disgust. "To my limited knowledge, _he_ doesn’t workon the docks, dresses a little too flashy for that. Walks by in new alligator shoes every other week, sometimes in a uniform. I'd say he's maybe the middle man, probably an _unregistered_ employee, too stupid to be anything else.”

" _Shoes_?" Oswald asks incredulously at the deduction.

"Yeah...I'm a baker and the only thing we could truly flaunt on the job while working was a nice pair of kicks."

Victor nods. “ _Huh_. The profile we had on him didn’t mention working for anyone else. But I’ll get on it.”

Oswald orders Victor to make a call to at least clean the mess up. Bodies included. Victor complies and also orders a baker's dozen while he's at it. Oswald offers to pay but the man refuses so he slips the money under the counter. They had to take care of their own after all, and he’d provided some useful insight for a man whose been out of the criminal scene for years. Before they leave he also takes a photo of the thieves’ faces and Victor makes some more calls.

Victor’s dopey grin is wide and infectious as he slides into the driver’s seat with Oswald on the other side.

He sets the plastic container of warm goods on the console and begins to roll up his right sleeve. Oswald observes the scarred tally marks with open interest. 

“How much of you is covered so far?” It wasn’t the first time he’d attempted to goad some information out of Victor, the answers often coming only in small doses, serving to make him even more intrigued despite himself.

“Just the lower arms and one set on the leg.”

Oswald frowns. “I thought you’d have more.”

“Working on it. That arm,” he gestures to his left, “was for Falcone. And _this_ one is for you.”

The light admission sends a pool of warmth in the pit of Oswald’s stomach. He's so rarely surprised in such a pleasant manner these days. “For me?” he stutters.

“Ye _p_.”

Swallowing nervously, he twists in the seat best as he can to level Victor with a serious look. “Let me see.” It’s a demand yet also a giddy plea. To know that Victor had marked his body with the numbers of everyone that has stood in Oswald’s way to the top so far. Of course, he knows Victor most likely doesn’t see it that way, it’s just another tally in a long line of victims that solidifies his name in the underworld as the best in the business.

Still. As Victor rests his arm atop the takeout box and pulls out a box cutter, a _new_ sort of electric thrill shoots down Oswald’s body. Old information threads an entirely new web of meaning for him. How funny that he'd failed to make such a connection until now. He believes that Victor will never cease to entertain him even during days of progress and prosperity.

Oswald's breath hitches and his heart does a funny sort of motion when the tip of the blade settles on clear, unmarked skin. Deep, precise lines without so much as a wince demonstrates his tolerance for pain and skill with a blade. A small bubble of crimson pops up and escapes down his arm. 

It makes sense for him to start with the lower part of his arms. He imagines Victor in the heat of a moment with a cowering boss or subordinate under his control, getting truly nasty and messy. He pictures Victor shrugging out of his jacket and pinning the sleeves of his shirt up, his victims getting a peek of what people only whisper about in the underground- none wishing to ever see firsthand.

He’d learned early that Victor needed a purpose and order in his life. How soon would those tally marks cover his entire body if he were to operate alone as some regular, old serial killer? And then what? It makes sense why he’d aligned himself with Falcone and even started his own business on the side. The perks of protection when working for the don, to owning some places around Gotham where he could play, and all the toys he can get his hands on...it was a dream job.

Shyly - reverently - Oswald caresses his fingers over the old dry and raggedly raised marks before he can think better of it. Follows the trail up to a pulsing blue vein and quickly pulls back, suddenly finding the car overheated and lacking proper ventilation.

Oswald clears his throat. “And the set on your leg?” he politely inquires.

“Huh? Oh. That’s in the past.” Victor cuts the second mark into his skin and wipes the blade on a Sweet Tart napkin. "This is _now_ \- and it sure was a helluva lotta fun.” Finishing, he sticks the box cutter back in his pant pocket and flicks the takeout box open.

Oswald muses on getting some stories out of Victor's Bubbie, the kind, elderly woman always asks to speak to him anyway. He beams. “Well, I do like to show a good time. Especially for my right-hand man.”

“Wait...” Victor manages to frown with a mouthful of donut, “you’re doing _what_ with your right hand?” he asks incredulously, brow furrowing as he peers down at Oswald’s lap.

“What? _No_. You- I mean, you’re _my_ …” he squeezes his eyes shut, lets loose and hot, irritated sigh. “My _go-to guy_ ,” he enunciates slowly as to not make this situation further awkward. “Duh, _Victor_.”

“Oh.” He smiles. “Well, I do declare, aren’t you quite the charmer.”

Groaning, Oswald covers his burning face with the palm of his hand, his affection bubbling into annoyance. “Finish your donut.”

~~**////** ~~

Victor has a lot more resources than Oswald initially thought around Gotham during all those years loyally working for Falcone. With the dead goon's photos circulating and a couple of phonecalls, it doesn’t take them long to find one of the bars the man with the tacky, large chain had frequently visited.

“You might want to stay here.”

Bristling, Oswald straightens as best as he can. “I can handle myself.”

“Oh-kay.”

The club is darker than the night sky and stenches of cigar smoke and the promise of desperate, drunken one night stands. A heavy, pulsing beat vibrates under his shoes. Oswald blindly reaches forward with a scowl when a warm hand wraps around his elbow and leads him through a hallway maze.

He closes his eyes against the flashing red and blue disco lights spinning down. A joyous chorus of Victor’s name rings throughout the club. Several people come up to greet him with smiles and renditions of their violent exploits, practically salivating for his approval. They ask him when he’s going to put on another live demonstration whatever that means, it stirs both excitement and fear.

Victor keeps his manners short but polite; he was here on business after all. He does ask about someone named Licks and a green haired, shirtless man in leather shorts points to a young, handsome boy.

Even from this spot and the infuriating, random choreography of the lights Oswald can spot the red, scarred _V_  cut into the man's forehead. Oswald is pulled closer to Victor's side and he looks up at him with a shocked expression. “That man…he had the same mark on his forehead as Butch Gilzean after you… _conditioned_ him.”

“Sure did," he casually says, eyes scanning the bar. "Can’t go losing my groove.”

“Do you do that to everyone you torture?”

“Of course not, that would be a lot of work. Depends on how I feel about 'em and what I’m breaking them in for. Carving my first initial on the head says one thing…if it’s on the _chest_ or… _thigh_. It sends an entirely different message.”

“Oh.” Oswald feels his mouth go dry and he shudders, almost wishing he hadn’t asked. He'd assumed that when Victor tortured his victims they'd eventually get a bullet in their skull. To know that he keeps some of them around...

“Around the time the mark starts to fade I bring them in for some maintenance," Victor continues.

“You didn’t with Butch.”

Shrugs. “I thought you could keep him in line.”

Oswald makes a face at the leashed man in a leather bodysuit crawling on his knees on the dance floor when they pass by. He was in a room full of killers, it only makes sense for them to have some alternative tastes.

Victor's hand clamps down on his shoulder causing him to tense.

“Stressed, boss?” He squeezes a little too hard. “I could bring you back here sometime again if you want. I can be your wingman.” He winks exaggeratedly, clicking his tongue against his teeth.

He shrugs off the hand, the weight and warmth of it still tingling long after which bothers him. He was uncertain if Victor had meant that in jest or was having a moment of ignorance. “I’d rather not.”

“Get it. More of the romantic type.”

Oswald was used to Victor’s sense of humor - he shared it - but this was steering towards flirting territory. Wasn’t it? He couldn’t know for sure seeing as how no one’s ever flirted with him. Their normal, easy banter and light fondness was evident, that’s for sure. But why was he suddenly feeling so uncomfortable? Bare in a way he hasn’t felt.

He's so lost in thought that he doesn't notice the woman coming up and hugging his companion affectionately.

“ _Ooh_. Are those new red pumps?” Victor says, pulling him from his thoughts. He leans away and twirls the woman around to get the full view and experience. “Those are hot, Sasha.”

Rolling her eyes with a light chuckle, she says, “glad someone noticed around here.” Sasha strikes a pose with a wide grin and shakes her rich, honey curls. “Thanks. You know, I got a matching holster to go with it which no one also noticed.”

“Yeah, I can relate.” Victor shoots Oswald a look and his boss gives him a nasty one in return.

“Why should I notice?” Oswald snaps, heat creeping across his face at the implication.

“See what I mean?”

Sasha tsks. “ _Mm-hm_ …”

Oswald moves to stand closer between the two. " _So_. I don't see a bunch of dock workers hanging here, or even knowing about this place.”

"They wouldn't," Sasha smugly confirms. "And neither does your deceased friend.”

"Then why are we here?" Oswald comes close to whining.

"Because we have two _very_ special guests tonight celebrating their night at the docks."

Victor places a hand on his chest in exaggerated appreciation. “You’re a doll, Sasha.”

“Just looking for my Barbie. Hopefully she's got a full playset and a chopper,” she jokes. "And still can show me a good time."

"Batteries included," Sasha and Victor say.

Sasha laughs and that flare of jealousy he’d felt earlier sparks back up again. How many people did Victor know? How many loyal, adoring friends and colleagues - or even his obedient subordinates and tortured servants - did he have at his beck and call?

The moment Sasha leaves to set things up Oswald turns to face him. “My, my…you must never get lonely. _Do you_?”

Noticing the bite in his tone, Victor frowns. “I _was_ bored earlier. Now I’m not.”

Oswald flushes. “I need a drink," he mumbles. "What time is it?" He was tired and irritable and feeling lonelier and out of place more than he has since Ed confessed his love for someone else. But then what was Victor to him? His trusted right-hand that was for sure. A man who always took care of business and just so happened to make Oswald entertained while doing so. Who respects his position without question.

A warm hand smooths over Oswald's back, firmly pressing between his shoulder blades.

"You okay there, head honcho?" 

Oswald groans. "No!" he snaps. "I'm exhausted."

"I can finish this alone."

"No," he stubbornly repeats.

"Okay. Good." A pause. "We can split 'em if you want?"

"What?"

"The guys...you still seem kinda tightly coiled."

Oswald bristles. "I- I don't need to-"

"I have a new knife you could use." Victor takes out a small box cutter with a nice, red handle from his pocket. He places it between them.

Oswald drums his fingers on the counter, drink forgotten when he eyes the knife with some interest.

Victor is staring at him, gaze intense like he's about to pounce for a kill. "You prefer playing with knives, do you?"

"I..." Oswald hesitate to glance at Victor, feeling that he's missing important information. "I do."

"Hey! They're in the waiting room," Sasha interrupts them with a wink. "Try not to make too much of a mess boys."

Victor nods and both men follow her to a dark, corner on the second floor. The room is only separated by a billowing red curtain. Victor takes out his Sig and pulls the curtain up for Oswald.

A middle aged man and woman, both sporting short hair and bland, charcoal gray suits sit on red love seats, speaking avidly with their heads bowed, glasses of scotch in hand. It takes a moment for it to click - the joyous faces of the brunet and blonde - normally stone faced and professional in the board room. They still haven't noticed the newcomers, or they believe them to just be the entertainment, too caught up in their own cleverness and betrayal.

Oswald shuffles forward in his frantic, awkward gait which finally startles the two into attention. "You. _Traitors_!" he sneers.

The two board of director members of the docklands stare at him wordlessly, Oswald can see the gears working in their head to come up with an excuse.

"Sir!" the blonde speaks first, jumping from the seat. "What are you doing here? I mean- we just came to- to have some fun."

"Nuh-uh," Victor accuses with a slow leer, "people like you don't come here _just_ for some fun. Too risky. Here, business is pleasure and vice versa- you came to hire or sell."

The brunet licks his lips nervously, eyes shifting between Oswald and Victor. "This is a- a, uh, simple misunderstanding here."

Oswald snatches the blade sheathed at Victor's hip and stabs the man who still hadn't stood up for him out of respect. The cut looks smooth and effortless sliding across his neck was just as ferocious. He stabs the man about a dozen times more before he eventually tires.

"Uh...this mess is _definitely_ being added on to my tab," Victor says. "Boss...we need to strike the other board members and fast."

Huffing, Oswald tugs down the hem of his vest and nods, turning to the board member's partner. "You thought you could get away doing business under _my_ name. You were _sloppy_."

"That was the point," she sneers. "Taint your name and take control back of our city."

Victor aims his Sig on the woman. " _Well_...wanna give us the other conspirators' names?"

She raises her chin stubbornly. "Do you really think _Oswald Cobblepot_ will be the one to keep Gotham in line? That hardened criminals - and _city officials, for that matter_ \- paying for licenses will really work? It's _pathetic._ Mayor or not-"

To see his boss kill three people in one day was unexpected. With his own knife as well. It aroused him more than the blood seeping into the filthy carpet. It was obvious the act was similar to Oswald, he all but glowed after the act, his tension evaporating.

Wiping the blade on the woman's suit jacket, he straightens back up and offers the hilt of the dagger to Victor. When he doesn't move to take it Oswald rolls his eyes and slides it in his pocket.

Victor frowns. "That was _mine_." It's a little too late for that. 

Oswald grips the lapels of Victor's coat and pulls him down and presses his lips against Victor’s. It’s plain and lacking in any technique, a little bit sloppy, and it screams virgin. Victor doesn’t do a lot of kissing when he wants to have fun but he’s had much better. Yet he laughs into his mouth, eagerly deepening the kiss.

Digging his gloved fingers into Oswald’s good thigh, Victor hitches the leg over, rolls his hips.

A shaky, panicked sigh. “No. Wait," Oswald says.

"Huh?"

"Get _off_.”

Victor hums. “That’s what I’m trying to do,” he smiles.

He lets Oswald shove him back, his boss' breathing labored and face reddening.

“Too intense for a first timer like you?”

Oswald glares and stalks off.

~~**////** ~~

~~~~After Sasha yells at the about the mess  sends them on their way back to the car. Both are making calls to search the docks and pays visits to worker's homes.

"Take care of this, Victor."

"Who?" Both echo.

"Fries! Victor Fries! Zsasz, take me home."

"Sure thing, chief."

It's almost two in the morning when they finally make it to the Cobblepot Estate. Ivy is still passed out on the couch, shopping bags around her. Firefly has gone to burn some merchandise and Mr. Freeze is handling the board.

“ _That_ was a fun night," Victor says as they ascend the stairs.

“It was _terrible_ ,” Oswald scowls pitifully. “What was meant to be a short outing turned into a coup. And now I have to be up in a few hours for my own meetings, and replace the board members." 

Victor follows him to his bedroom door, leaning against the threshold and crossing his ankles.

"I'm taking a shower and then I'm going to sleep. Goodnight, Victor." Oswald stomps to the bathroom and slams the door.

Victor doesn't leave. The thought doesn't cross his mind as he looks around and sees an opportunity for what it is.

He takes it.

Oswald has a hidden collection of knives throughout the mansion. Victor knows this because he and Ivy made a game one evening of finding where they were. Some were predictable; like the meat cleaver under the head of the dining table, or the large kitchen knife inside of the liquor cabinet behind a purple wine bottle. Others were more surprising such as the temperature poker strapped between the armchair and cushion in the study, inside a vase of roses. Victor has a lot of toys to pick from.

~~**////** ~~

"Victor? What are you still doing here?"

“Hi, boss.” Victor waves where he's sitting at the edge of Oswald's bed.

The newly arranged setting was far too intimate for the anxious churning in Oswald’s gut. The lighting was dim in lieu of the lit candles on almost every surface. His eyes sweep over to the nightstand by the bed holding a few items; a chilled bucket with an assortment of glass and plastic bottles of a few liquids, a first aid kit, towels, and a large candle.

Oswald’s frown deepens. “What’s going on,” he asks in a rushed, defensive voice.

Victor stands. “Just making sure you didn’t need anything else before I go.”

“ _Anything else_?” Oswald hisses, annoyed. He ties the robe tighter feeling self conscious and naked out of his usual layers.

“Mm-hm.” A sharp snick diverts Oswald’s attention to Victor’s left hand and his mouth clamps shut, teeth clicking loudly. In his hand, he holds a small knife with a curved edge.

The sneer loses its bravado and Oswald moves away. “What are you doing?” he demands in a low hush.

Victor matches him step for step, circling around him like a shark until the back of Oswald’s knees press against the mattress. Victor stops and reaches inside the ice bucket to pull out a tiny bottle of milk, he uses the blade to remove its aluminum top. It comes off with a loud _pop_ and sails into the air, Victor catches it and flicks it back in the bucket, placing the knife next to it. “ _Milk_?” he extends the bottle before Oswald.

“What? _No_. I think you should leave.” Oswald shakes with befuddled anger.

“ _I_ think you want me to stay.”

“ _Leave_.” It comes out as no more than an unconvincing whisper. Victor watches the increasing rise and fall of his chest.

Swivelling around and resting weight on his good leg, Oswald gives him a wary, threatening look. “You’re not planning on giving me the same friendly treatment as Butch Gilzean are you?”

“Of course not,” Victor says cheerful enough. “ _But_ …” his expression falls and he leans close, breath fanning over his jaw. His neck. Victor’s voice lowers considerably. “I didn’t have to use physical means to undo him- _much_. If you’re worried about that there’s no need. The intent here is totally different. This is for your own good, boss, trust me.”

Swallowing nervously, Oswald arches his shoulder up reflexively at the touch. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t want to show a sign of weakness. “Well…” he trails off for lack of anything better to say. “I’m not one to easily trust these days or equally swayed. Especially since I have nothing to hide.” he juts his chin out challengingly.

“Okay, boss.” Victor says, unconvinced, and nods to the bed. “Just checking to see you get to bed safely then. It’s what you’re paying me for,” he tone is chiding and condescending.

Oswald glares despite the heat flooding through his entire body, as if hit with a wave of unsuspecting illness.

Victor remains silent, giving no inch and he expects no less of him. That focus and commitment was what made him so good at his job.

“ _Fine_ ,” Oswald sighs deeply, accepting. Nevertheless, he casts a glance at the tray holding the tools that will soon be utilized against him. He turns back to Victor who was also looking at them in anticipation. Oswald climbs in, resting his back on the twisting iron bars of the headboard.

It would be so easy for him to lean forward and grab the knife by the bucket.

“Lay back,” Victor instructs.

Exhaling slowly through his nose, Oswald leans back on his elbows with half a mind to run. He tosses out that notion when Victor arches a hairless brow at him. His view dips up to the bedroom ceiling and he crosses his hands on his fuzzy white robe. His mouth turns dry and suddenly it becomes harder to breathe. Oswald contemplates squeezing his eyes shut but the thought of not knowing what’s happening terrifies him as much as getting a full view. He may be inexperienced in these things but he’s not completely ignorant to what’s happening now.

“I also brought water and juice. Milk is best for dehydration though.”

“As tempting as that sounds,” Oswald grits between his teeth. “I’m not dehydrated.”

“You should drink it anyway. Just in case."

Oswald takes the bottle and takes a couple sips to hopefully shut him up.

"Do you want to have sex or not? Kinda getting mixed signals here, boss.”

Oswald chokes and splutters, milk coming up his nose. “When did I say I wanted _that_!?” he wheezes fitfully between gasps of air.

Victor looks at him like he’s the one losing his mind. “ _You said_ ,” he begins slowly, “knives were your thing. Then you stabbed two people and kissed me, I assumed that was an invitation and some foreplay.”

Oswald opens his mouth and when nothing comes out he shuts it again. This was quickly veering off into sexual territory ten minutes ago and now that is was confirmed he was inwardly panicking. Alarm bells ringing in his head that this was a bad idea. Sex was definitely not on Oswald’s mind when both situations had occurred; nor, when he thought of love and romance. Hell, he hadn’t even gotten to that particular fantasy in mind with Ed before things took a turn for the worse in that relationship.

Victor takes the milk back and sets it on the dresser. “Lay back down,” he orders.

Overwhelmed on what to do or how to explain himself and earlier events - and perhaps just a _little_ curious - he obeys, laying on his back in the center of the bed.

Victor removes his gun rig and sets it on a chair in the corner, next, he bends down to remove his boots. Oswald winces as they thud on the floor and the sound of the nightstand drawer opening comes after. The smooth, tinny sliver of blades sliding against each other ratchets up his breathing. The weapons hidden from sight which Oswald thinks is odd if Victor had…

Soft, thin fabric caresses the arm closest to Victor and wraps around him. Victor grabs his other hand and pulls them above his head, his fingers caresses the cool bars. “Try not to move so much.”

Oswald’s breathing is loud in his ears, echoing in the space of his head, suddenly wishing for more of that milk for his dry mouth. He squirms anyway as Victor firmly ties the fabric to the bars of the headboard. He’s so focused on what may happen next that he pays little attention to the sting of alcohol that burns his nose. He yelps in shock when he feels Victor pushing aside his robe to get a hand under his shirt, a cold, wet sanitary napkin rubbing over his skin.

"What- why are you doing that?" Oswald demands with no following answer.

Victor touches something on the nightstand. Something sharp. _Drags_ it across the heavy wood, slow and deliberate with a thoughtful hum.

Any sane or logical thought leaves him as Victor climbs above him, straddling his hips. A long and shiny rectangular handle in his grasp catches Oswald's eyes, and before his mind can string together what's about to happen, with the barest flick of his wrist there’s a blade in his face. He blinks and it's slid back into its handle. And then out again with just as much swiftness.

Oswald lurches back with an embarrassingly loud gasp at the sight of the butterfly knife swishing inches from his nose, his eyes crossing at the close distance.

Victor expertly flips it over and under his long, nimble fingers so fast he doesn’t bother keeping count each time he does it. Each sharp snip as the blade slides in and out of the bite handle making him wince at the threat of pain. One, false move leaving him severely damaged. It whirls over his wrist in one smooth motion, effortlessly dipping into his other hand where he tosses it in the air.

Oswald gasps as he watches in seemingly slow, agonizing seconds as the balisong drops through the air, his arms bound and useless to shield himself. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head into the pillow with an undignified whimper, teeth pressing down on his bottom lip so hard he tastes the hot swell of blood surfacing.

 

The pain never comes.

 

The sound of the blade falling back and forth resumes once more.

Oswald exhales shakily through his mouth, teeth aching as he sucks air back in.

Victor stares down at him with a lazy smirk, attention not even on the knife he’s spinning and flipping right above Oswald’s face.

It reminds Oswald of being strapped to a rollercoaster as a child. Flipping round and round, pulling his frantic heart up in his throat as his body falls- and thudding right back down to his stomach as he’s jerked up again. Dizzying and nauseous.

The second he shuts his eyes against the terrifying onslaught the sound stops again. A low laughter emanates from above him.

Victor squeezes his shoulder and proceeds to tug down one side of his robe, curling his fingers into his gray pajama t-shirt. The tear of fabric has him opening his eyes again as Victor cuts the shirt in half. Rotating the knife he moves the dull side of the knife up and down his chest, tipping the blade down just on the edge of uncomfortable.

“I figured you’d like knives,” Victor mutters distractedly.

Oswald raises his head to get a better look at his ruined shirt, cool air hitting his pale chest.

Victor looks up then and the intensity of his gaze has Oswald meeting it.

“Oh,” Victor says in awe. “You do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Victor closes the balisong and leans forward over his head to place it on the nightstand. He leans back again, firmly grabbing Oswald by the shoulder to pull him up just enough to remove his arms out from the ripped clothing. Oswald turns his head away, feeling completely turned inside out.

“Do you wanna know why I prefer guns, boss?”

The honorific feels odd at the moment seeing as how Victor holds all of the power. It sends a shiver down his spine.

“When I’m on the job it’s not about who I’m sending a message to or taking out. It’s strictly business.” Victor shoves Oswald back down and leans over him. “A gun is quick and impersonal. No hard feelings, y'know? Well...except for when Butch killed one of my girls...” He slides off the bed and Oswald’s heart rate increases when he loses sight of him. “When you’re pointing a _gun_ at someone - whether at a far or close distance- chances are they’re going to look at _you_ and not the gun. Other than the game, _that_ is a rush all on its own.”

The sound of blades clicking against each other brings another wave of anxiety vibrating through each layers of his skin. He wonders if Victor would have the audacity to leave a scar. There’s a considerable pause as if Victor’s lost in thought.

The bed dips.

Suddenly, he’s met with a stinging sensation of biting ice on the side of his stomach that slowly, _slowly_ creeps up his flesh to leave a trail of damp and goosebumps. As unsuspecting as the move was, the shape of the object was unmistakable. Oswald hisses and sucks in his stomach when the frozen blade of the kitchen knife circles around the dip of his waist. Oswald instinctively tries to wriggle away from it, unaware if he’s being goaded or not, only for Victor to follow the movement, pressing the flat of the blade more firmly to his side.

“Victor, wait- _stop_!” It digs into the soft, fleshy area and tingles uncomfortably, shooting sparks of pain to the center of his stomach. “Stop!”

“With a knife, you can't help but look at it.” A hint of amusement as Oswald does just that. He leaves it there for what must feel like forever for Oswald, the feel of it eternally icy; scrubbing and scraping up against his body until the skin feels uncomfortably, conflictingly hot and raw pink.

“A knife just says _more_. It’s rash and _personal_.” The blade scrapes swiftly. “Intimate. Provocative.”

The meaning behind the words goes straight to his cock and he shivers violently in response. Shamed tears prick at the edges of Oswald’s eyes as he bites the tip of his tongue to stop from moaning. He’s suffered far worse without so much as a blink or scream and despite that he’s crumbling under Victor’s ministrations. 

Without warning, the flat of the cold steel flips to the tip, digs into the vulnerable area before trailing up and over his rib cage. Oswald’s eyes widen as he sees the knife rise above his heaving frame in its full, shiny glory.

Victor’s slender, gloved fingers grasp the black handle of the intimidatingly large weapon. Victor gives nothing away besides the obvious enjoyment of his parted lips turning up in a predatory smile. Nothing of his next move.

Victor brings the blade up and brings it back down on his ribs with a harsh _smack_. A pained shout escapes Oswald; more from the second of sheer terror of certainty that the cold steel was about to slide between his rib cage rather than the near harmless, reprimanded sting. But then two more fall in the same spot. A third. A fourth. The fifth has him howling and arching his back, head thrown against the sheets.

A demeaning, low whistle. “Down, boy.” _Smack_. Another just above his belly button that has him immediately collapsing back on the bed. “ _Good_ boy,” Victor praises with a smile. He soothes the pain with the cool knife which hardly gives him any real reprieve, the temperature of it only serving to make the flat side feel like hundreds pinpricks on the pink, heated skin.

Oswald reels forward unconsciously to shield himself. If Victor wasn’t so skilled he’s certain he would have already been on a trip to the hospital for stitches. But all it serves to do as he cants his hips up helplessly is rubbing his growing erection on the inside of Victor's thigh.

The knife comes down no more. Instead, Victor leans over the bed and stabs it deep in the ice bucket.

Sighing in relief, Oswald’s head rolls back down on the bed. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s suffered worst blows without batting an eyelash.

A low laughter emanates from Victor. His hand moves up to rub the heated marks, bringing some much needed warmth back in his cold torso when Victor swats it away.

Oswald's bottom lip trembles as the calloused pads of Victor’s fingers run over a couple of abrasions. “Am I bleeding?”

“ _Hm_ …a little,” he purrs. "Nothing serious if that's what you're worried about.

Oswald grunts in discomfort when another cold blade smooths over his stomach. Two in hand now running up and down his sides giving him no time to recover. A shuddering breath and Oswald arches his back in response, icy droplets of water from both blades cascading down his skin, leaving a ghost of piercing sensation everywhere.

The water rolls down his stomach and curves down his raised back to land on the sheets. Down his spine. The hem of his pajama pants. Oswald shivers violently as the chill begins to spread _everywhere_. It’s so much worse than it was before, tipping over the edge of pain. Both knives curve upward and his breath catches as Victor runs them over his chest.

He may as well have been stabbing him, little ticks begging to be soothed, crawling over his skin like needles.

Oswald whimpers as Victor circles the flat of the blades on both nipples, firmly rubbing them. He does squeeze his eyes shit then, humiliation constricting his chest as he feels his nipples hardening under the unrelenting pressure. He bites his tongue to stop from yelling. The urge to hit him is tempting and automatic, conflicted as he is at being violated and aroused. He finds relief as the blades slide up towards his collarbones, but it’s quickly taken away as Victor’s slightly less cooler knuckles brush against the pink buds. The light scrape of the metal buttons on his gloves riling him up more.

The blades rub against his throat, the one on the left knicking his jaw. Trails of water trickle over the curve of his mouth, his nose. Victor leans down, lips touching the shell of his ear and he shivers as those lips purse and blows cold air inside. Oswald’s teeth are chattering now and he's on the verge of crying for mercy.

Victor rocks against his hardening erection and what little resolve Oswald had left breaks and out rushes a loud, needy noise. An embarrassing heat spreads across his entire face at that noise, but it doesn't stop him from rolling his hips upward to mimic that sweet warmth from such a simple motion. Victor grinds down in the same moment and keens at the too intense feeling overtaking him.

Victor stares down at him, the only outward sign of his arousal coming in short, quickened breaths and the slight sheen of sweat on his face.

Licking his chapped lips, Oswald opens his mouth. “If those freezing knives were supposed to put me at ease," he rasps, "then they _failed_.”

“I know. They weren’t supposed to. These were.”

Warmth fills Oswald fast - too fast - and he belatedly registers that it’s from two different blades pressing on his hips. He squirms and writhes towards the light teasing promise of heat Victor provides him, uncaring that it’s coming from a-“

"Is that my letter opener!?” Oswald shrieks, squinting at the white ivory handle with gold trimmings.

“Ye _p_ ,” Victor pops the p, completely unperturbed.

“You-” he’s cut off by an involuntary hiss as Victor takes care to give extra attention to warm his sides.

Victor begins to rock his hips again in short, shallow thrusts. At the same time, he hovers the knives inches from his skin for a few more minutes and he can feel the tension melt away away. His once tight muscles relaxing bit by bit. He closes his eyes, lips parting in a sigh. That same warmth washes across his face moments later.

Oswald’s hips jerk up and he opens his eyes. Victor is tugging down his pants. 

Hot, searing pain erupts on his thigh and he arches up, screaming in pain, hands clutching around his leg. The only coherent thought in his mond is that he's been _stabbed_.

Victor had stabbed him.

The tears do come then without his permission, chest wracking in a silent sob at his foolishness. Curiosity _had_ killed the cat, as the saying goes- and now the penguin too. Victor has turned on him. His right-hand. His partner. His friend. Victor-

The pain fades away eventually, bringing Oswald to his senses. Mentally checking over the wound. How to escape. Find any weakness of the man above him.

But...he _wasn’t_ bleeding. And the pain - as hot and penetrative it initially had felt - subsides. 

Blinking away the oncoming tears, Oswald awkwardly leans to the  to wipe the tears on his forearm. Above him, Victor wiggles the handle of the tiny letter opener. Oswald would be furious if he could even work himself up to that emotion at this point.

“Not hard enough to bruise. But the added heat _almost_ makes it feel like the real thing, huh?” Victor mocks as if he’s about to stab something, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “Stop worrying and just ride with it. Now, stop squirming so I can remove your pants. Three light, warning taps of the warming blade against his erection stills him. The feeling oddly pleasurable compared to what he'd just endured. So Oswald nods eagerly and waits for his fate.

His gloves join the objects on the nightstand and Victor picks up a bottle of clear, viscous liquid. Goes over to the chair where his gun rig is set to hang his jacket over the arm, pulling out the box cutter he'd used for his arm earlier.

"Don't worry. I cleaned it."

The fact that the information wasn't on Oswald's mind was worrying. Everything was fuzzy, lost between a resigned fear and aroused euphoria. He watches as Victor slicks up his fingers and makes his way to the end of the bed, kneeling down to nudge his legs further apart. 

The box cutter presses into his soft, tender inner thigh and stays there. He's about to open his mouth, ask why he's hellbent on torturing him even more when a finger slides against his perineum. Oswald bucks up at the feel of it but the hard, angry slap of the blade on his thigh stills him. “Victor-” A choked gasps spills from Oswald’s mouth when he feels the finger wriggling inside him.

“Stay. _Still_.”

Pointed, tiny prickles erupt across his thigh in a firm, straight line that has Oswald throwing his head back and gritting his teeth. The soft scrape of his own skin niggles in his eardrum, sending signals to his brain to jerk away. Instead, his entire body clenches; toes curling in his socks and fists clenching satin sheets. 

Victor applies just the barest pressure and Oswald lets out a short, broken groan. He bites his lip as he feels his skin pulling taut against the serrated edge and at the same time a finger is being pushed inside him. He doesn’t fight to resist both their pulls; neither the outward hot, stinging burn blooming on his thigh or the one leisurely thrusting inside him.

The pad of Victor's thumb rotates in small circles around his perineum. With one last precise snick, he removes the blade and slowly looks up into Oswald’s glare. “ _Relax_ , boss...” he mutters absentmindedly, “I’ve barely touched you.”

Victor presses the cool flat of the blade against his reddened skin to soothe it, pushing two fingers inside at the same time.

Oswald writhes against the pleasure and pain, a long, desperate sob constricting in his throat. "I need-" Oswald doesn't know exactly what he wants, never having felt so confused in his life. Does he want more pain or more pleasure? A mixture of both- if there was even a difference at this point in his life. Does he want the finality of this maddening, invasive release his body has become victim to? Or does he want the intimacy because it's _Victor_?

A soft, cool wetness trails up Oswald's calf and his legs splay open wider. Between the knife, fingers, and Victor’s breath fanning against his erection Oswald is certain that this is the way he dies.

“ _Hm_ …just one more line and we’ll be done here boss.”

Oswald’s barely paying attention, eyes shut as he’s basked in the various sensations Victor is cruelly assaulting him with. The mixture of sweat, leather, and gun oil invading his nostrils.

“Slow and steady,” Victor commands, his free hand digging into Oswald’s knee. Oswald is whimpering before the blade even touches him again but when it does he ceases breathing at all. The cut is rougher this time yet just as slow as the first one. “ _Victor_ ,” a guttural groan, a threat. He wriggles and rolls his hips, deeper into long, pale fingers and the knife cutting into into his thigh.

Thick wetness oozes down his leg and for one delusional second he’s convinced that he’d orgasmed too early. As he looks down between his legs he’s met with the sight of crimson red falling down pink, precome splaying across his stomach, agitated skin and Victor's flushed face.

He lets his head fall in submission and prayer, not even caring at this point about scars. “Victor, _please_ ,” he asks in a small voice. “I’m so close.”

“All right, little bird,” he coos. “I’ve got you.”

Quickly pulling back, he snatches a tiny packet and takes to ripping it open with his teeth. Alcohol hits his nose. He barely registers the sting as Victor roughly cleans the mess on his thigh. Shortly after, there’s a bandage being roughly smacked on his thigh and firmly smoothed over before he’s being pushed on his back.

Victor crawls on top of him, cutting him loose and tossing the knife somewhere. Oswald immediately gets his fists in what little he can grab of his snug dress shirt to pull him closer.

The sound of a zipper being pulled down. The bliss of skin on skin. And then pressure, more pleasure and pain fogging his mind and body.

When it finally happens- _finally_. It’s neither fast or rough and Oswald tries not to cry, to hit him because of it. Because Victor knows exactly what he’s doing as he fucks him slow and deep, their chests pushing against each other, his mouth caressing the pulse in Oswald's neck.

Everything is too intense and Oswald feels himself falling back into nothing but sensations as he lays there, clutching around Victor like his sole lifeline. Even with the padding, the raw area of his carved thigh shoots a stab of pain with every lazy thrust. And when he thinks it can't get any absolute than this, Victor kisses him. Just a light, barely there kiss, fingers digging so sharply into his hips he thinks he’s been stabbed for real this time. Oswald pushes up on his elbow, deepening the kiss and sealing his broken promise.

Victor knows exactly what he’s doing and it sends Oswald over the tipping point.

His orgasm comes unexpectedly and Oswald clenches around him, thighs tightening around Victors waist as he comes and comes. Victor snaps his hips forward, fucking him with hard and rough now until he comes inside him. He drops all his weight on top of him with a pleased huff.

Oswald wriggles under him and Victor rolls off.

There’s a pop and the strong smell of aloe vera that makes him scrunch up his nose.

Victor’s hands are gentle as he rubs the aloe onto the small scrapes and cuts he’s mapped across Oswald’s skin. However, when he doesn't do the inside of his thigh in defense of cleaning it already Oswald becomes curious and peels the bandage back.

A red, angry letter _V_ was the completed work along the inside of his thigh.

“You-” Oswald stutters in his disbelief. “You _branded_ me!?”

“Uh-huh.” A slow smile. “It looks good on you boss.”

“ _Victor_!”

“It’ll only last a few weeks, boss,” he coolly placates.

Oswald flops down into the sheets, curling under the blanket to hide his face. " _Whatever_."

"Night, boss."

Oswald groans. "Goodnight, Victor."


End file.
